


The Uncharted Sea

by Czarny Kot (Sephaya)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7476531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sephaya/pseuds/Czarny%20Kot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you but knew the flames that burn in me which I attempt to beat down with my reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

  
_If you but knew the flames that burn in me which I attempt to beat down with my reason. --Alexander Pushkin, Eugene Onegin_

She heard the crack of ice breaking on the forest path before she saw his slight figure outlined against the snowy trees. There was no subterfuge in his posture and no hesitation in his step; his was the inexorable approach of winter.

Turning her head away then, she noted him only as a shadow in the corner of her vision. Indifference was her cloak here, it was all she had to cling to in the biting cold. Without its protection she felt herself naked in the face of such a great wave of grief, she was afraid she would drown in it.

He was close now, and she noted suddenly how the frozen ache in her chest eased slightly with his approach and how the sudden flush on her cheeks left her shivering. Her mouth twisted in scorn. How dare she take any comfort from his presence?

There was no way to measure these feelings she realized. Even after everything, only he understood the full span of events that had brought her here. He knew so much more of her than anyone, even her half brother. But this was no surprise, everyone else was dead. He was no loyal dog who would not lie to her. Still, at least she knew the taste of Petyr's lies, she had supped on them before. 

His steps had stilled, yet no word had yet crossed his lips. She wondered what he would ask of her now. She wondered if she would give it to him. 

* * *

  
_What do you want?_

_I thought you knew what I wanted._

* * *

There was no shadow behind her as she left. If there was ever a man more understanding of the benefits of patience, she had not met him. They both knew this discussion was not finished. 

She had felt his heart beating underneath her hand. The rhythm, at first as steady as his steps into the grove, had sped up as he sought to move closer to her. Perhaps he understood she was tempted, but did he understand he was as well?


	2. Chapter 2

The noise from the hall was muffled as she stood in the darkness at the corner of the courtyard. The celebration did not look to be ending any time soon. Sitting at the high table earlier, she had played the doting sister and even enjoyed it for a time. Even though supplies were low, spirits were high and the ale was still plentiful. But the noise had become too much after a while. The battle was won, and she had seen to her vengeance. Now she needed time to pick up the pieces of her shattered self.

There was a sudden soft step behind her. It must be him. 

“Sansa.” Petyr’s voice was pitched low. They would not be overheard. “Are you all right, my dear?”

She ignored the question, and the gentleness in his voice. Turning, she could see his face dimly in the glow of the nearby brazier. “Do you need something, Lord Baelish?”

He took another step closer to her. “You looked unwell when you left, I was concerned.”

“I am fine, thank you.” This time she stepped forward until they were both caught in the flickering amber light. He reached out then, and she felt the warmth of his forefinger as he touched the sliver of skin left exposed by her glove. There was no urgency in this motion, and just for a moment she appreciated his consideration.

“I have thought on your words earlier,” she began, “and there are risks. So I must ask, would I be safe?" There were answers she needed, and she would have them from him.

"From whom?"

“From yourself."

There was a slight tightening in his brows. Pain? Had she wounded him? That thought should not bother her. Sansa well knew the peril of reckless trust.

Petyr’s eyes were troubled. Though some might regret granting him the time to formulate an answer, Sansa knew that, as always, he would offer her only slightly tempered bluntness in his reply. 

"I do not seek to cause you further pain, Sansa. The Boltons were a mistake that I would give anything to undue." 

There was no point in looking for sincerity in his gaze, she knew. That did not mean however, that he might not speak true. Sansa wished suddenly that she could cut him open and once and for all separate his ambition from his care for her. Perhaps then she could finally understand what he really felt when he looked at her. But as she watched his still face, the calm expression belying the way his breath came ragged and quick, she realized that she would never truly know the truth. That each cut, each attempt to pick apart his tangled motives would only reveal further layers of both affection and lies in equal measure. These two facets of his personality were indivisible.

She felt a light touch on her shoulder then, as delicate as a lovers touch, and her spine stiffened in response. The heat of his hand burned through her cloak, but her voice remained icy. "What plans do you contrive when you touch me so, Lord Baelish?"

He shook his head, his gaze still not leaving hers. "This is no stratagem, my dear, I touch you for the same reason a man would touch a thing most precious to him. To know that it is real.”

"I am not my mother, it would behoove you to remember that." Her voice rang out suddenly, crackling in the icy air.

"No, dear heart," his hand gentled her, slipping down her shoulder to smooth the fur of her cloak. His gaze dropped again until all she could see was the sweep of his eyelashes against his pale cheek.

She wanted to weep at her sudden longing to know who spoke then, Petyr or Littlefinger. Exhaustion dragged at her. But there was no time for respite in the growing darkness. If he were to try and gather her in his arms now she might weep for tiredness, or she might call the guard. She did not know.

“Once perhaps, your words would have had merit. But I do not think of her when I touch you now. I think of a girl snatched from a lion's jaws. I think of a maiden in the snow, longing for a home she cannot quite remember.” He paused, brushing a tendril of hair away from her face. “And I think of a woman fierce and vengeful demanding my aid. Your home has been restored to you now, Sansa, so I ask you, what comes next?”

Sansa's head jerked upwards and she stepped backward, dislodging his grip. "I know what I owe you, my lord!”

“I think, Sansa, that you still mistake my intent.” he continued, a wry smile breaking the somber cast of his face, “I would beg you to consider my suit.”

A shake of her head. “I know that I am in your debt, but would you demand this of me now?”

“I am no knight, full of empty courtesies. Though time presses, I would have you willing, sweetling. There is much we could accomplish together.” 

“Your lack of knightly graces is not what causes my disquiet, sir.  Should I not fear the danger of placing myself in yet another's power?”

Reaching underneath his cloak then, he withdrew his dagger. “Every knife is sharp my dear,” offering it to her hilt first he waited for her hesitant grasp, “but you will not be cut if you are the one grasping the hilt.” Curling his fingers around her hand, he turned the blade towards his chest.

“There is much that you would rightly blame me for…” His gaze was steady.

Her breath caught at his words, then she spoke.

“You helped the Lannisters conspire against my house.” 

“Yes,” and he did not look away.

“You rescued me from Kings Landing to use me against your enemies.”

“Yes.”

“You come to me now and offer me an open blade and a chance to kill you if I do not accept your hand.” 

“Yes.” There was no hesitation.

“Why?”

“ _I don't know._ ”

A pause then. He was moved by his statement, she could see it in the way his chest heaved as if he had been running. The sound of his rapid breaths was louder than the crackling of the nearby fire.

“You are no longer a girl, you are a woman grown and the last legitimate Stark of Winterfell. I would pledge to protect that, and you. I would see you rise higher, Sansa, with me at your side.”

“Truly, what will you have of me?” The words were a whisper, a caution against anyone who might hear them and notice the cold steel at his chest.

“There are plans we must draw up, sweetling.”

“You will use me.”

“Of course.”

She tightened her grip on the hilt of the dagger, and felt his fingers flex in response. “Is that a threat?”

“No, it is a confession, for, of course, you will likewise use me. And I will cooperate gladly…” his voice faded away. And as she scanned his face, trying to discern his intent, she began to understand that Petyr had passed beyond the limits of his normal composure. There was a wild look in his eyes as he shook his head. “For I find myself ever more reluctant to conspire against your best interest.”

“But who will determine what my best interest is, Lord Baelish?” This was the crux, wasn’t it? She would be a pawn no longer. 

He looked at her then, and she was confident that he wouldn’t answer her. He would lie; he would deflect.

Then he surprised her.

His grip on her hand was gone, and only she held the knife still pressed against his chest.

“You, my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
